Blind No More
by Tonight.At.Noon
Summary: Darcy Lewis needs to stop saying yes to blind dates. (AU - All Human)
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Hi, all! This is a Wintershock two-parter set in an all-human universe. The M-rating will take effect in the second part, even though the scene is hardly explicit.

And yes, the titles of these chapters are bits from the world-famous song "Don't Stop Believin'". I will not apologise for this.

Enjoy!

* * *

 **Strangers, Waiting**

* * *

Darcy Lewis was not having a good time. Twenty minutes into this blind date-setup by her dearest and most-likely-to-find-herself-out-of-a-roommate-come-morning friend, Jane-and Darcy was wondering if it really was possible to wish oneself out of a bad situation. She had already tried tapping her heels together three times. She hoped someone in the restaurant had a magic wand she could test out. Did you need a wand to disapparate? For the life of her, she couldn't remember. A wand probably was necessary.

Blind dates were never a good idea. When would she learn to just say no to Jane. She was too much of a Yes Man. (Yes Woman? Did that need to be gender specific?) Either way, she said yes far too much. It was her fear of conflict. Fear of letting people down. Fear of never managing to find someone on her own. These things never ended well, though. Literally never. Since meeting Jane at a book club in college, she had been on . . . What was this? Seven? Seven. Seven of these blind dates. All left her feeling miserable and lonely.

But this one was special. It was the worst-the worst- blind date ever. In the history of the great, big, old as fuck universe, nobody had been a more horrible blind date than poor Darcy Lewis.

John Smith. The name should have given something away. It couldn't have been his real name. There was a hint of some European accent hiding in his words. Maybe (just maybe) he was a war criminal hiding out in the United States. It would explain why he was such a shitty human being. Or, maybe he wasn't human at all. That also would explain some things.

"...So I said, Janine, you knew the time this proposal was due, I'm sorry, but I'm going to have to let you go. And, this is best part, Diane, pay attention, she had the gall to ask me to reconsider!" John smacked the wooden table so hard Darcy's margarita sloshed in its glass. He looked at her, clearly waiting for some recognition of Janine's stupidity.

Darcy (or was her name Diane? She couldn't even remember anymore) took her cue and laughed weakly. The crackling, half-assed noise seemed enough to appease him, for he went on with his story.

"And in response to her pathetic whining, I told her, I don't care if you're eight months pregnant, you should have thought about that before you decided to be late with your proposal!"

Darcy nodded, sure her face was pulled into some show of disgust, but John Smith didn't notice. He took a long gulp of his whiskey, smacking his lips when the drink was wholly down his throat.

Let's countdown all of the glorious qualities about John Smith, shall we? Darcy murmured to herself. John was still yapping on about how ungrateful his employees were, unaware she had closed herself off from the conversation. He's sexist. That's blatantly obvious. He's been staring at my boobs since he got me from the apartment. He's got no tact. His wealth and status have clearly destroyed whatever human decency he was born with...

Darcy stared at him, wondering if she had picked out all of the the bad qualities. His old face, worn with years of being an asshole, was wrinkled and slightly grey. Handsome enough (she could only imagine how much better he looked when he was her age), but looks only counted for so much.

"Hey, waiter-boy!" John called as a figure drifted past Darcy. "Did you not notice that my glass was empty?"

"So sorry, Sir, I must have been distracted." The waiter John had snapped at, who was not even their waiter, came over to the table. He reached for John's dry glass, his large hand clutching the object so tight his knuckles burned white. "I'll grab another one for you right away."

John Smith nodded briskly. "Top shelf only, son," he said, though it came out as more of a command. "And when is our food getting here? We ordered nearly twenty minutes ago."

The waiter briefly glanced down at Darcy. His gaze, curtained by a sleek mop of dark hair that reached his dimpled chin, was intense, even if it lasted for only one second. His hazel eyes asked her a question: What the hell are you doing out with this guy?

"It's a very busy night, Sir. But I will check with the kitchen staff before I return with your drink," he said, looking again at John.

"Very well, Barney. Run along now. I'm getting thirsty." John snapped his fingers-an unmistakable dismissal.

The waiter paused for a moment. Trying to hide his smile, he covered his mouth with his free hand and pretended to be overcome with a coughing fit. As he stood there, Darcy caught sight of his name tag: Bucky.

He backed away from the table, with John telling him to remember to wash his hands lest he wish to be sued for some stupid thing or another.

As he crept away, Darcy watched him over her shoulder. Their eyes met. Her stomach tightened (with sympathy, mostly, she decided) and she mouthed a heartfelt I'm sorry. He bent his head once in understanding before slipping out of sight.

...And he's rude to the wait staff. A real winner.

To be fair, Jane would be horrified to learn how badly this date was going. She met this guy through work only once and he must have been in a much better mood then otherwise Jane would never have dreamed of pairing them together. Still, she was going to hold this over her roommate for a while to come. Provided, of course, she didn't end up going to jail for murdering John Smith in front of everyone in the restaurant.

"These waiters have no idea how to do their job," John said. Darcy could tell he was gearing up for another rant. "They are our servers. One would think they understood that meant I can ask them for essentially anything and they have to do it..."

He went on for a bit. Midway through his longwinded speech, Darcy stood up abruptly, purse clutched in her hand. John startled. He had probably forgotten she wasn't one of his blow up dolls. (She had a strange feeling he kept many blow up dolls in some dungeon. The Christian Grey types weren't nearly as endearing as EL James wanted them to be.)

"Bathroom," she said, moving the strap of her bag over her shoulder. "Be right back."

She practically ran from the table, more than done with the evening. She was starved, objectified, and already exhausted despite it only being a quarter to eight. The expensive atmosphere of the red and gold and brown restaurant was weighing her down.

Darcy slipped past tables and people. Nearing the bathroom (maybe there would be a window big enough for her hips to get through) she knocked shoulders with someone. She stumbled slightly forward, looking back, ready to apologise to whoever she had run into in her desperate attempt to get away from John Smith.

It was a waiter. Dark, long-ish hair. Harsh, heavy forehead casting odd shadows over his mysterious face. In the dim light, she could just make out his amber-green eyes.

Bucky.

He held John's refill in his hand. Taller than her by a few inches even in her heels, he kept his eyes locked on hers. The thin, sparse hairs at the back of her neck stood up. That tightness returned to her belly.

Not sympathy, then, she concluded.

"Do you want to get out of here?"

She hadn't expected that.

"My shift is over and you really look like you could use a break from Mr. Smith." Her open mouth must have given her away.

He was right, though. More than right.

"There's an Eighties bar just up the road, if you feel like going."

Darcy had never done anything this reckless before. Bucky could be a rapist for all she knew. But her gut was shouting at her, banging her insides. It was telling her to go.

"Let's get out of here," she breathed, a rush of adrenaline spiking her blood as the words left her mouth.

Bucky smiled. This time, he didn't cover it behind his hand. It was a big smile, one that showed off all of his bright teeth and crinkled his gorgeous eyes.

Dropping John Smith's glass on a nearby, vacant table, he took Darcy's hand and led her through the busy, noisy restaurant. The sudden touch of his warm hand in hers jolted her enough to push her forward. They reached the kitchen. He pushed open the double doors, saying his goodbyes to the chefs and bus boys and waiters hanging out among the sweet-smelling food. Some whistled at the two as they trekked through the ovens, and Darcy's cheeks burned pink.

Outside, the October air was cool. Darcy loved DC in the autumn. The trees were melting gold and orange. The sky was filled with stars. Aeroplanes flew overhead. Darcy watched them soar over the Washington Monument on their way to Dulles.

Shivering in her tight, knee-length black dress, Darcy turned to Bucky. He was ridding himself of his apron, beneath which hid a nicely fitting white button-down tucked into his black slacks.

"You do this a lot, then?" she said, feeling as though she had just run a mile in her heels. Bucky raised a bushed eyebrow. His eyes sparkled in the moonlight.

His attractiveness was distracting. What was he doing as a waiter? Surely some Calvin Klein campaign was missing him dearly.

"Rescue damsels in distress," she clarified.

"You're no damsel in distress," he said, his low, almost gruff voice making Darcy's breath catch in her throat.

"You didn't answer my question."

He smiled, a small one that barely lifted the sides of his mouth. "No. You're most definitely the first."

She knew it shouldn't, but his admission (which had the potential of being complete bullshit) made her insides wriggle with delight.

"He's a regular, then? John Smith?"

"Oh, yeah. Most of his conquests are too blinded by his wallet to bother hating him. You, on the other hand"-

-"I was being obvious?"

He nodded. "Big time."

"He didn't seem to notice," she recalled.

"He's also too blinded by his wallet." Her rescuer (she was no damsel, but he still took her away from a disastrous situation) held out his hand. "Come on, then. The bar's just down the road."

Darcy took ahold of his hand. "Lead the way."

"I'm Bucky, by the way," he mentioned as they walked.

"Darcy," she responded.

He looked over at her, his hair blowing in the wind. She was glad she had tied hers up for the evening.

"I've never met a Darcy."

"Well, I've sure as hell never met a Bucky."

The lighting was low, but competing with it were the dozens of neon signs lining the walls. Round tables crowded the space around the bar as vinyl booths sat beneath those neon signs advertising soft drinks and random cities in the US. For a Friday night, the place was fairly empty. A few groups of suit-wearing women and men sat in booths and there was a small gathering of college-age kids swaying beside the jukebox as it blasted Michael Jackson hit after Micheal Jackson hit, but her and Bucky were the only ones without a posse.

Apparently, this was a DC gem. A secret hideout for those who loved the 80s. Bucky discovered it with his work buddies after a particularly long shift one night and they had been coming ever since.

"Did you grow up in DC?" Bucky asked, raising his voice over Smooth Criminal. They were steadily getting through the obligatory "getting-to-know-you" questions. She knew his parents were divorced, he was an only child, and his first trip out of the country was to Canada.

Darcy placed her beer on its coaster. "No. I'm originally from New Mexico. What about you?"

"Born and partially raised. I spent most of my time up in Brooklyn with my mom, but when I wasn't there I was down here with my dad. What brought you here then?"

"Politics."

"Oh?" He lifted that eyebrow again. This time, the left side of his mouth followed. "You don't strike me as the politician-type."

"I'm definitely not a politician. I'm a journalist. Political science."

Another look of shock. "What paper do you work for?"

This was a sore spot with Darcy. She had been applying for jobs for a little while now and no one was biting. "Well, I'm still looking. I only graduated in May. But I'm sure you know what they say, that journalism is a dying profession."

Bucky, chin resting on his closed fist, frowned a little. A thin crease appeared above the bridge of his nose as those dark eyebrows moved closer together. "Come on, now. That can't be true. Where did you graduate from? That's gotta count for something."

"GW. 3.75 GPA, but that was due to some not-so-bipartisan professors disagreeing with my ideas."

"GW?" Bucky lifted his head. His eyes went wide.

Darcy stroked the side of her beer, gathering water on her fingertip. "Yeah...?"

"I'm at GW right now getting my Masters!" Bucky shoved a hand through his hair, and Darcy watched, distracted, as it fell in pieces around his square face. "I've been there for two semesters already. I wonder if we've ever seen each other."

"Oh, I think I would have remembered if I'd seen you," Darcy said unthinkingly.

"Why's that?" Bucky asked.

Darcy could have curled inside of herself. Why did she say that? What on God's green earth compelled her to say that?

"Oh, you know," she said, lifting her beer to her lips and taking a long sip. Play it cool, Darcy. "I just think I would have remembered. You have a very . . . distinct kind of face."

It dawned on him slowly what she had meant by her original comment. Was it the light, or was there a faint rosy hue dusting the apples of his cheeks?

"To be fair," he said, eyeing the table. "I would have recognised you too."

Darcy's heart thudded into her ribs over and over. Deciding to change the subject before either of them burst into flames, Darcy asked what he was studying.

"Criminology," he said after a moment's pause. There was something more there, but Darcy had only known the guy for about thirty minutes and did not feel compelled to press further.

About to ask some more generic questions like they themselves were on a cringeworthy blind date, Darcy's phone buzzed inside her purse. Wincing, she slid it out and checked the caller ID. She could laugh-she did laugh.

"Who is it?" Bucky leaned closer, and Darcy was momentarily caught up in the subtle citrus scent of his hair. "John Smith. Huh." He peeked through his long lashes at her. His mouth was curled in an evil sort of smile that unexpectedly thrilled Darcy "Answer it."

She scoffed. "And say what?"

"Speak your mind. Tell him off for being such an entitled jackass."

Darcy was no dangerous woman, but she found herself taking Bucky's advice and opened the call.

Bucky swigged his drink, triumphant.

"Hello?"

"Diane?"

"No, sorry," she said, fingers rattling, "this is Darcy. Can I help you?"

"Must have the wrong number . . ."

"Wait!" Darcy gasped. Bucky jerked beside her. "You're not John Smith are you?"

Smugly, John responded, "Why yes, I am."

"Oh, wow! You see, I was on a date with a John Smith tonight. It was the worst date I had ever been on," she said.

Bucky's cheeks were rounded as he laughed, quiet enough for it to not leak through the phone.

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that. I was on a date with this Diane chick and it was probably as bad as your date."

Darcy drew a sharp breath and pulled the phone away from her ear.

"What?" Bucky asked.

"He said I was a bad date!" she complained.

Bucky tipped his drink towards her. "You did abandon him before the food got there," he countered.

Fair point. Darcy pressed the phone to her ear. Time for the big finale. "Oh, no, that was me. You were on a date with me."

Bucky gave her the thumbs up. She had to stop herself from giggling like a foolish schoolgirl.

"But your name's Darlene."

Oh my god. This guy was the worst. "My name is Darcy," she said slowly. "D-A-R-C-Y, and it wasn't Diane you were on a date with, it was me, you entitled, selfish, arrogant asshole. Thanks for giving me a wonderful story I can relay to all of my friends as the years pass. Here's to you, John Smith," Darcy called, raising her nearly-empty bottle. Bucky brought his in the air too; they clinked glasses. Everyone else in the bar was staring at them, but Darcy couldn't have cared less. "Go die friendless and alone now."

And with that, she hung up, another shot of adrenaline coursing through her veins.

"Woo!" Bucky cried, laughing freely. He grabbed her arm. His hand was cool against her fiery skin. That twisting feeling filled her stomach. "Now that is empowerment! Another round, Sam, for this spitfire and myself."

Darcy smiled at him, realising she had never before, in her 22 years of life, felt so carefree and safe with anyone. A stupid feeling, perhaps, brought about by a six month dry spell and alcohol, but she couldn't have rid herself of it if she tried.

And she really, really didn't want to try.

She had never done this before. Talked the night away with a virtual stranger. Of course, as the evening spread into the late hours of the day, and the other customers in the bar trickled out, James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes became less of a stranger and more like an old friend she hadn't seen in ages. Speaking to him felt like a catch-up session. She didn't feel strange telling him about any aspect of her life, and he seemed open and honest with her as well.

Eventually, they stopped drinking. Too much pausing when they had drinks in front of them.

She learned about his early life in Brooklyn. About his best friend Steve, whose decade-old murder was lying in a vault, unsolved. He told her the stories of his first love, second love, third love. She swallowed the strange sense of jealousy that crept upon her during those tales of romance and heartbreak. He talked about the excitement in his household when he got accepted to Berkeley in New York where he majored in criminal justice. And he spoke of his time at GW, and together they contemplated the many scenarios in which they could have spotted each other on campus.

In turn, she spoke of herself. Of her life growing up in the bad part of New Mexico with her hardworking father and absent mom. She gave him snippets of information about the horrible place that was her high school and the boys that started to give her attention the day she returned from summer break sophomore year. She explained the shock of receiving her acceptance to GW, the happiness in her father's eyes that, as the time for her to leave approached, became more of a sadness.

When last call was made at a quarter to midnight, Darcy dreaded walking outside of the bar. Away from the David Bowie song swimming through the speakers, away from Bucky Barnes, the man who would one day run the Police Department in his hometown, she was plain old Darcy who had been setup with the worst guy ever by her best friend.

She didn't want the night to end.

They were alone in the bar by this time. Bucky, elbow on the bar, chin against his palm, eyes ripping through her damned soul, blinked slowly in the low light.

"Come home with me," he said, the last notes of Space Oddity fading into the atmosphere.

Darcy, like so many things that night, had not been expecting him to say that.

Was he drunk?

Was she drunk?

She started saying the alphabet backwards in her head.

She wasn't drunk.

"Darcy." Bucky reached for her forearm again. With no icy drink to keep it cool, his hand was hot against her skin. It burned right through her.

He hadn't been staring at her chest the whole night. One glance here and there, but her cleavage was on full display by Jane's suggestion. She could hardly blame him.

And he was good. She could tell.

Darcy looked at him straight on. Her skin prickled. "Okay," she said. "Okay."


	2. Chapter 2

**Shadows, Searching**

* * *

Bucky's apartment was an open space. A studio, with no walls and nowhere to hide. Except the bathroom. She could always run and hide in the bathroom. As she sat on his two-seater sofa, eyes facing the large window peering over a busy DC street, watching as cars with bright headlights bibbed at fellow cars driving just a smidgen too slow, and as to her left Bucky busied himself grabbing her a glass of water, she wondered if she could escape. Run away and never look back.

The thing was, sex frightened Darcy. Just a little. It was something she craved when she didn't have it, but when it came to her she wanted nothing more than to sprint in the opposite direction. (Much like that time when her mother, after years of radio silence, came to her off-campus apartment one day out of the blue. Part of Darcy had been thrilled, the other part slammed the door in her mother's face and ran down the fire escape.)

Sex was enjoyable (if not a little painful when she had been celibate—by choice or by circumstance—for a few months), but it also seemingly always lead to complications. Feelings and confusion. And if this were to be strictly a one night stand (something Darcy had never before done, not even in college when it was basically expected of her) what the hell would the morning after look like? Her, struggling to slip back into her dress while simultaneously trying to not wake up the extremely attractive man in the bed? Or would he sneak out first, like that guy in _What's Your Number_ , leaving her to feel dirty and used as she crept home with last night's makeup streaked over her face?

 _Gah!_ Why had she agreed to come home with him? Him, a virtual stranger.

"Your water." Bucky stood in front of her, arm held out, a glass of water in his hand.

Darcy looked up at him, at his kind eyes and open face, and took the cool drink. Their fingers brushed as they exchanged the glass, and Darcy remembered why she had so quickly accepted his request as that twisting sensation in her belly returned. "Thanks," she muttered, unable to raise her voice higher than a strangled whisper.

"You look like you have just agreed to do something you really don't want to do," Bucky observed, a hint of teasing in his voice.

"Is this your detective training in action? Because if so, I just get this far-off look in my eye every now and again. It's nothing, really," she lied. Her words flew out of her mouth quickly. Even she knew how crazy she sounded. She bowed her head. "Sorry. I'm not used to doing this."

"What? Lying?" There was no malice to be found in what he said, but that didn't stop her from wanting to turn invisible out of shame.

Darcy peeked at Bucky through her mascara-coated eyelashes. He was cloaked in shadow. Streaks of light cut across his body from the street lamps outside of the apartment, exaggerating the muscles of his arms as they strained against the fabric of his work shirt.

The world had handed her a perfect gentleman and she was acting like a total fool.

"Look, Darcy," Bucky said. He held out his hand for her, like he had done earlier. Her rescuer, even if she was no typical damsel in distress.

With her free hand, Darcy took the proffered appendage. He hoisted her off the sofa, and they stood face to face. Noses almost touching. He breathed and it washed over her in sweet waves, sinking into her pores and lacing her bloodstream.

He was still hot against her skin. Their clasped hands were on fire.

Darcy felt a dull ache spread inside of her.

"I didn't invite you here to have my wicked way with you," he continued. "I asked you here because I think you're an amazing woman who has just been on the worst in history with the worst man in existence."

Darcy was sure it was the residual warmth from the alcohol talking, but she couldn't stop herself from batting her lashes and saying, "But what if I want you to have your wicked way with me?"

Did she just say that?

What the fuck compelled her to say that?

It was cheesy and lame and embarrassing. She could see Bucky's mouth spreading into that same kind of smile he tried to hide when John Smith got his name wrong.

"Oh my God," she said, pulling her hand out from Bucky's grip. She sidestepped him and approached a large painting beside the kitchen. It hung on the brick wall. It was a print of Dali's _The Persistence of Memory_.

"Nice painting," she applauded, just knowing her whole body was painted a bright pink. She kept her head forward, her focus not shifting from the melting clocks. "You like art? I took an art class in college. A requirement, for some reason. It was actually a specific class on surrealism, so Dali is one of the only artists I really know anything about . . ."

"Darcy."

She heard him say her name.

"Darcy."

Again and again, he said her name. It got closer every time, but she ignored him. She stared at the painting ahead, talking about her lame art class and applying pressure to the wooden floorboards beneath her feet, hoping it would be enough to break them so she could fall through and make her escape.

"Darcy."

There it was, right against her ear.

She stopped talking. The words faltered on her tongue, halfway out of her mouth. She was frozen in place. Bucky stood directly behind her. His body cut off the light from the large window in the apartment, leaving the small bulb above the sink as her only source of light.

She knew how dangerous it was. Knew there would be no turning back when it happened. But Darcy swallowed all of her senseless unease and turned around. Maybe it was the lack of proper lighting, or the fact that, as she stood there facing him, rain began to pour from the sky. Whatever it was, Bucky's liquid blue eyes turned dark as a storm cloud. Lightning struck, and a shiver ran sharp up Darcy's spine.

It happened all too fast for her to do anything. He kissed her as another flash of lightning burst bright, and she tasted his whole life on his lips. In each groove of his mouth, memories that were not her own flooded her mind. Sorrow and grief at the loss of a best friend. Overwhelming joy at finding a letter from George Washington.

Thunder clapped. The lights went out, leaving Darcy and Bucky in the dark. It was not enough to deter them. Darcy let go of the water in her occupied hand. Glass collapsed on the floor, the sound no match for the continuing line of thunder.

She curled her arms around his neck, pressing his face against hers, and twisted his hair around her fingers. He groaned deep in her mouth. Their tongues twirled in a practiced dance as their mouths opened wider.

Everything inside of Darcy was swimming. She felt as if she had been set out to sea on her back, and she didn't care at all if she started drowning. She welcomed the ocean's clawing hands as they coiled around her and carried her away from shore.

Mindful of the shattered glass, Darcy went on her tiptoes and pressed her body into Bucky. She felt something jutting hard against her stomach, and it thrilled her to know she was the source of Bucky's excitement. (She had turned many guys on in her life, but this felt different—this wasn't because she had flashed her breasts or talked dirty; it was just her. Nothing else.) As Bucky pulled her bottom lip into his mouth, he lowered his hands to her thighs and lifted her out of the greedy ocean. She flew into the air, her body soaked in a wonderful mixture of sweat and desire.

Wrapping her legs around Bucky's waist, he carried her effortlessly to the bed at the far end of the apartment. He laid her down gently and brought his hands to rest by her head. Her ears were ringing, but she saw his mouth as it carved out the words _I want you_.

She was brave. Bold. Darcy Lewis was fearless.

"Then take me," she breathed.

Bucky smiled. He flashed his teeth before that crescent-shaped mouth descended upon her neck. He climbed on the bed and kneeled over her thighs, his hands going to the edge of her dress and carefully pulling the fabric up. She was hot, but as his teeth (those perfect, beautiful teeth) scraped a sensitive spot on her throat, as his long, burning fingers traced her hips, she felt her skin break out in goose flesh.

Darcy sat up for a moment so Bucky could take off her dress completely, leaving her unclothed except for the matching lingerie set she always wore for first dates. Deep blue lace to match the hungry eyes devouring her.

They panted together, their chests rising and falling in synch. Darcy, through a curtain of her hair, watched Bucky's gaze flit over her body. He licked his lips and she felt her insides turn itself in knots.

"Your turn," she heard herself say, though she wasn't quite sure how she managed to sound so sultry as her mind whirred.

She attacked Bucky's clothing, using nimble fingers to quickly unclasp all of the buttons, revealing more and more of his smooth, muscular body. Her mouth dried when she sunk her hands into the arms of his shirt to pull it off. She trailed the tip of her index finger between his pectoral muscles and down to his belly button, tracing the coarse hair beneath it that disappeared into his black slacks.

Bringing her eyes up to his, she saw his mouth hanging by its hinges. He panted like an overworked dog.

Slowly, their gazes still locked, Darcy pinched the black leather belt holding up Bucky's trousers. She pulled the strip through the loops and fiddled with the buckle. It made a clanging noise as it loosened. She tugged until she held the entire thing in her small hands, and she threw it to the ground, not flinching when it banged against the floor.

Lightning streaked in the sky, illuminating the apartment for a moment. Long enough for Darcy to evaluate the situation and realise that she wanted nothing more than to jump atop Bucky and spend the night beneath the sheets with him.

As thunder cracked through the air, Darcy took her opportunity. She pounced, pushing Bucky against the bed. Their mouths laced together and Darcy felt hands on her back. Deft fingers tugged her bra clasp. She heard it snap, louder than any boom of thunder, and before she could feel embarrassed about their size or self-conscious about the stretch marks zigzagging across them, her breasts were out and pressed against Bucky's chest.

Soon enough, she was the one on her back. Bucky loomed above her. His thumb stroked her cheek in an oddly intimate gesture. He tucked hair behind her ear, his breaths coming out in harsh waves as he trailed his thumb down her jaw. His hand went to her throat, resting atop her carotid artery. Her pulse soared beneath his fingers.

He moved his hand further down her body. Tracing over one breast and then the other.

Darcy sucked in a sharp breath at his touch.

"Are you sure?" he said suddenly, breaking the silence. His voice was thick with want.

Darcy didn't think about her answer. There was nothing to think about. Not really. She had pushed past her initial fear. She was ready for this to happen. _Desperate_ for it to happen.

She nodded. "Yes."

Everything was a wild blur after that. Remaining clothes were shucked off, a drawer was opened and shut. He kissed her tenderly, his fingers rubbing sweet circles over sensitive areas until Darcy was a writhing mess atop the bed sheets.

And then he filled her. One swift movement and they were joined. There was no fumbling, no scorching pain. Just a shared exhalation and relief. Sweet, sweet relief.

* * *

Darcy awoke to the soft sound of pattering rain. She opened her bleary eyes and immediately sat up. This was not her room.

She rubbed her forehead, recalling the events of the previous evening. No. Of course it wasn't her room. It was Bucky's apartment.

Holding the bed sheet over her chest, she looked down to her left to find Bucky gone. Fear raged inside of her. He had abandoned her like that jerk in _What's Your Number_. Just as anger began to boil internally, something caught her eye. Against his pillow rested a folded up piece of paper. Darcy tilted her head and picked it up.

 _I had class this morning. Feel free to wait around until I get back which should be a little after ten. There is some cereal in the cupboard next to the fridge and bread in the basket by the toaster oven._

 _If you have plans and can't stay, my number is on the back of this page. Call me when you get the chance._

 _Bucky_

Darcy smiled. A big one that was so wide it hurt her cheeks. She pressed the note against her face and squealed, pounding her feet against the bed.

She did it. She had sex last night with a practical stranger.

Better than that, she had amazing ( _amazing_ ) sex with a kind, caring detective-in-training. And he did _not_ walk out on her expecting her to do the walk of shame.

"Oh, shit," she sighed, clutching the paper to her chest.

 _So much for a one night stand_.

There was no way she wasn't punching Bucky's number into her contacts. Not after the night they shared.

Speaking of her phone, she hadn't gotten around to contacting Jane to let her know she wouldn't be coming home. Darcy slipped off the bed and picked up Bucky's button-down, slipping it over her naked body. She went over to where she had left her purse and pulled out her phone. There were over half-a-dozen messages, all from Jane.

 _ **How's it going with John?**_

 _ **It must be going well if you're not texting me back!**_

 _ **Come on, Darcy, I'm starting to get worried. Call me! Or at least text me.**_

 _ **Okay, I just asked a girl who went out on a date with John a little while ago and she said it was the worst date she had ever been on. Are you okay?**_

 _ **He hasn't murdered you, has he?**_

 _ **Oh, God, he's murdered you. I sent you on a date with a murderer. What am I going to tell your dad!?**_

 _ **Never mind. I called your phone this morning and some guy named Bucky picked up. He said you were at his place for the night. I probably shouldn't believe him, but he sounded trustworthy on the phone and I'd rather not think about you lying in a ditch somewhere. Love you! And I swear to God, text me when you wake up!**_

Darcy laughed at her best friend's messages. She quickly typed up an _I'm not dead!_ message and sent it to Jane before the cops got called. Jane responded immediately.

 _ **Thank the Lord. But how do I know this is Darcy and not her murderer?**_

Thinking of a way to let Jane know it was her, Darcy replied with, _You once went to class hopped up on NyQuil and collapsed while giving a presentation._

 _ **Okay, I believe you. Will you be coming home today, or are you still enjoying your oddly-named sex friend.**_

 _He's out for the morning. Debating whether I should stick around or come home._

 _ **Stick around!**_

 _But I need to look for work!_

 _ **That can wait. Hot guys cannot.**_

 _Fine. I'll see you later._

 _ **Be safe!**_

Darcy put her phone in her purse and went into the kitchen, noting the glass she had smashed the previous night had been cleared away. What else had she slept through? Usually she was a very light sleeper.

Grabbing a bowl and fruity cereal, Darcy got herself some breakfast and sat at on the sofa. The clock on the cable box beside the small TV read 8:56. Only one hour until Bucky returned.

Darcy wondered if he would be up for round two. Lord knew she was.

* * *

 **Epilogue: Two Years Later**

* * *

"And the moderator didn't shut him up?"

"No, but that's not even the best part. Thank you," Darcy said, slipping past Bucky as he held open the door to Young Americans.

The pair walked deep into the bar, grabbing their usual booth by the jukebox. It was moderately busy tonight. Crowds of college kids mixed in with a few groups out for a night on the town.

"What is the best part, then?" Bucky asked, resuming their conversation.

"Someone in the audience told him to shut up."

"No. Really?"

Darcy bobbed her head, smiling at the memory from the debate she attended in Virginia that day. "Really. I'm sure a video is already on YouTube. Everyone was clapping."

"I'll grab us some drinks and then we can look it up," Bucky said, sliding out of the booth. "What do you want?"

"Hmm," Darcy contemplated. She eyed the Specials board. "Margarita. Lightly salted."

"Sure thing." Bucky bent down to peck her cheek and headed down to the bar.

Darcy stared after him, remembering the night he first brought her to this place. It seemed like forever ago. So much had changed for them in that time. He graduated and got a job on the DC police force. Darcy got her own job working for an online political magazine.

One thing hadn't changed, though, and that was them. They were still essentially the same people they had been that night. A little more financially secure. A little more in love. But basically the same.

Eyeing the television mounted above the register, Darcy's jaw dropped.

"What happened?" Bucky asked, returning with their drinks. He sat across from her and took her left hand. "Darce?"

"Look." She pointed with her free hand. " _Look_."

"Okay, I'm looking. I'm looking." He looked. "What the fuck?"

"I know. I can't believe it."

 _It_ : John Smith (or should she say _Johann Schmidt_ —that was the name flashing on the news channel) in handcuffs being taken away from the building where Jane and he worked.

"Pete, could you turn up the volume?" Bucky asked the bartender.

The shaggy-haired college kid obliged and Bucky and Darcy listened to the reporter on the scene.

". . . Millionaire has been arrested for several crimes ranging from numerous counts of sexual harassment to embezzlement . . ."

Darcy looked to Bucky. "Did you know about this?"

"I work in homicide. I had no clue," he said, eyebrows raised. He was just as shocked as her. "But, let's be real. It's not that surprising. He was blatantly harassing you on that date. And a creeper like him—it's no wonder he was stealing money from the company."

"Wow," Darcy breathed. "He really is an asshole."

"The world's greatest," Bucky concurred, raising his beer to Darcy's margarita glass. They clinked and took a sip.

Darcy placed her drink down and gathered up the condensation on her thumb. "Let's not forget, though, that without him we would no be sitting here."

"Please, I don't believe that."

Darcy raised an eyebrow. "You think we'd have found each other regardless?"

"Well, yeah," Bucky said, shrugging. "Why not?"

"I would never have thought to enter that restaurant. Or this bar. I was done at GW when we met, so meeting on campus would have been out of the question," Darcy listed. She paused, leaning in close to Bucky. "You mean to tell me that you, Bucky Barnes, believe in fate? Because that is the only other thing that could have brought us together."

"Maybe I do," he said, bending a little so their faces were level. "Maybe I believe in fate."

"Fate has a funny face," Darcy said, her eyes flicking to the TV screen.

Bucky didn't respond. He pressed his lips to hers and fiddled with the ring decorating Darcy's left hand. She closed her eyes, soaking in the moment.

"Finish that drink up. I've got to finish filling out those transfer papers before morning," Bucky said, pulling back.

Darcy pouted at their separation, but soon found herself transfixed by the reporter on the TV.

She didn't believe in fate, even if Bucky did. The reason she was happily engaged to the man sitting across from her was because of the criminal on the television.

Raising her glass, she saluted John Smith and squeezed Bucky's hand.

"I love you," he said out of the blue. "Just thought I should let you know."

Darcy grinned. A lovesick fool kind of grin. "You're kinda growing on me, too."


End file.
